


Ch. 4.5

by CorndogsDie



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Canon Compliant, Collective POV, Frankenstein is a weeny, Gen, Ghosts, Short, Spirits, chapter 4, kind of similar to communism the word 'we' is used a lot, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 17:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18428636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorndogsDie/pseuds/CorndogsDie
Summary: That man who disturbs our rest, we hear his name is Victor Frankenstein. Vengeance will be served.





	Ch. 4.5

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for English class.

                                                                 

We reside in the breeze billowing through your door, in the earth below, in the smog slowly snaking up the forest trees. Nevertheless, we are heard. A thousand voices thunder in anguish, “That man. He comes here, disturbs our rest, disturbs the earth and for what purpose? For what purpose does he search? That parasite of a man.” The desolate cemetery lies overgrown, damp and frigid, air crisp with a lingering agitated scent. Yes, that is the reason for our wrath. Our formerly undisturbed resting place has been tainted by the imprudent wretch who has disinterred our remains. The gravedigger watches with a glass of brandy in his left hand, poised against the rusted fence. His eyes are glazed, unaware of our turmoil. A drop or two of rain hits his glasses before the heavens break open. He looks up briefly and moves to shelter. That man who disturbs our rest, we hear his name is Victor Frankenstein. Vengeance will be served.

A week has passed and the parasite has continued to aggravate us. We cannot end his incessant interference face-to-face, but we wish to communicate our displeasure through other means. Ambition coils inside us. A plan. We will slowly erode his energy, his sanity. If he insists on disturbing our rest, then we insist on disturbing his.

With our increasing conscience, it is a fairly easy task to find the madman. Storms and showers of hail follow him at first, but he hides away in the top chamber of a house and when he ventures out at night, he is unstoppable. Unexplained voices come next, however he is too focused on his task. He is unbothered. As time passes, our collective conscience and anger only grows. We must find another way.

Suddenly, an idea full of risk. We have heard before of transferring energy and ideas, of subtle manipulation. It is of no importance whence the idea came, as we cannot easily distinguish between one dead man’s knowledge and the next. We gather. The gravedigger’s glazed gaze, his glass of brandy. A common occurrence. His compromised state and proximity to death. We push. His body seizes before propelling the glass with force. Convulsing, the gravedigger attempts to grasp his wooden chair and falls down in a fit. He bites his tongue in an involuntary manner and it draws blood. His breath is short and laboured. Perhaps our combined energy was inordinate to the gravedigger. Regardless of the matter, the results are pleasing to us. If we can push, then we can pull. It will be a lengthier procedure, but well worth it.

The top chamber of his house. He sits there murmuring about his work, hands busy with unknown instruments and known body parts. “Ours,” we howl. The heavens open once more and lightning flashes close. We watch him from the window, from beneath the floorboards, from the front of the closed door. We pull. The energy rushes into us. We can barely feel it, a small amount of energy from one man. His eyes droop and his hands cease for a moment. Witnessing the man’s struggle instigates a surge of pleasure though us. The parasite continues working despite his sudden languid demeanour. So very stubborn; this will be his downfall.

This routine continues daily for a few months or so. Whilst he may still be infatuated with his research, there is no need to plant ideas in his head to keep him away from the cemetery or morgue; the wretch is barely functional. He struggles around his chamber with pathetic similarity to the reanimated dead we learn he desires to create. Letters accumulate with no response. This may very well be the last we see of the man, but we feel it in the air. Something building. Is it possible that this is only the beginning and not the end? We dismiss the notion. Nothing comes from paranoia. He has not disturbed us for the past fortnight.

Once again, we gather past the rusted fence. Settling back down into the earth, underneath the headstones we rest. Waiting. No. We are certain this time that something is amiss. The earth is screeching at us, calling out for the vengeance we vowed upon Victor Frankenstein. “A curse!” it says. “Curse the insufferable wretch!” A curse? Of course, how could we have been so blind? And here we were, eagerly enacting weak-minded tricks and ready to concede defeat. We emerge from the ground and surround Frankenstein for the last time. “Foolish man, your ambition will only lead to ruin.” We speak with intent and push. A smoky black ring gathers around his neck and the air shifts from volatile to secure. Once more, we return to the ground to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to drop suggestions or let me know if I fucked up somewhere (misspelt words, bad punctuation, grammar, etc.).


End file.
